I look into eyes, but I can’t tell if they’re mine. The words coming off my tongue feel like delicately polished, practiced lines.
In my head I know my face, but I haven’t shown it for so long now, that I might now know how. Every day I’m someone else, someone different, but I swear that you could never tell that I’m hollow.
I’m hollow. I fill the emptiness with things that aren’t real, to see if I can feel less hollow, but I know it’s only temporary. It’s temporary.
In my head I know my face, but I haven’t shown it for so long now, that I might now know how. Every day I’m someone else, someone different, but I swear that you could never tell that I’m hollow.